


Of Dream and Journal

by TDoompoet



Series: This is why I don't write [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death In Dream, Short One Shot, Time Travel, Witch Hunts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TDoompoet/pseuds/TDoompoet
Summary: " A single notebook turned to a practically blank page, with two solitary words written across the first line. “Dear Journal,” they said. "





	Of Dream and Journal

“Of Dream and Journal”

\--Written 31 October 2001--

“Dear Journal,” was written alone on the top line, unaccompanied by any other scrawling on the rest of the page. I’ve been told before that one way to get over a fear was to write about it in a journal or similar. Perhaps just on a loose piece of paper, just so it’s written down somewhere. But I couldn’t think of how to write it. It was just too bizarre to put into words. But it was just a dream, wasn’t it? ‘But can’t dreams mean things, or show things, as well?’ asked a little voice in the back of my head. I never did like that little voice people called a ‘conscience,’ but I admit it did have a point this time.

Then something I’ve heard from somewhere (stored in the back of my mind for many a year) reached the surface of my thoughts. Something about dreams continuing into reality. Yes, that would be the best way to describe it. I’d had a dream that I was sitting at my desk, just as I was now, with that little scrawl on the notebook in front of me. Then I’d heard a noise, and thinking that my sister had come into my room again, I turned to the doorway to tell her to leave. But there was no one there, and the noise repeated from another direction. This time, I turned to the window. ‘Must be that cat again,’ I thought to myself. The little animal was always finding itself stuck in the tree outside my window.

But all thoughts in my head came to a stop in my head. It was no cat in that tree, this time. There was young woman who looked like my sister, dressed in very old clothes from around the colonial days of America. She appeared to be standing on a branch, unmoving, with her head tilted down so that her tangled and matted hair fell over her face. I stood from my chair about to ask her what she thought she was doing, when I saw it. She wasn’t standing on a branch; she was hung from one further up. I screamed in fear, and started running from the room to find my sister, make sure it was she alright. Or just to find anyone, to tell me there really wasn’t a person there outside the window.

Somehow, though, I wasn’t in my bedroom any more. I stood, amazed and terrified, looking down the dungeon hall with narrow doors along the walls, each no wider than myself. ‘And probably just as deep,’ I thought to myself, remembering something I’d heard about the dungeons of the Salem Witch Trials. Shouting came from somewhere further down the hallway, and not knowing anywhere else to go in this strange place, I followed them, hopefully to a way out of this place. And suddenly I was outside, dressed in those same funny clothes the woman outside my window had been wearing with shouts of “Witch!” coming at me from all sides. I tried to flee, but one of those colonial dressed people stopped me. Unable to move, my eyes frantically looked around, trying to see something that would tell me this wasn’t real. Then I panicked. There, sitting loosely on a branch, was a rope with a hanging knot tide at the end. Someone had explained death fears to me once, and hanging was mine.

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut, and felt myself falling to the ground as hands let go of me, when a ringing noise reached my ears. It was high-pitched and more annoying than anything else was. Just like an alarm clock, the worst sound in the world in my opinion. My eyes shot open, and I stared at the little ringing alarm clock sitting on the nightstand next to my bed. ‘That was one weird dream,’ I thought to myself as I climbed out of bed, ready to go downstairs and get some breakfast together. Then it caught my eye. A single notebook turned to a practically blank page, with two solitary words written across the first line. “Dear Journal,” they said.


End file.
